Status: In development!
A Goddamn Moskal
Omar.
The cigarette's glow shun silently in the rainy evening. Artiom checked his watch one last time. One last inhale, the fag cast a glooming light upon Artiom’s worn face, before fading it into obscurity. A figure slowly stumbled past the darkness that surrounded Artiom, Omar back from a night of drinking himself into a drunken stupor. A swift move and Artiom was close behind the lumbering shadowy figure. Omar seemed oblivious to the fact that he was being tailed by a sociopath and self-proclaimed artist, who’s every intent involved him being gruesomely mutilated. However, as their steps began shifting from their, so far, matching routine, Omar had to cast a look over his shoulder. The dark figure that loomed over him instructed: "Keep walking." Artiom’s calm kept him walking a steady pace. "Keep your hands out." Artiom instructed him as he tried to reach for something in his pockets. Omar could be seen throwing looks in every direction, hoping to see anybody else around, but to no awail. The street was empty.
After a few tense minutes, Omar peeked upon a house to his right, but kept on walking down the pavement.
"Say, is that not the house you’re looking for?" Artiom rhetorically asked him. He did as the figure hinted. He stepped up to the door and stopped.
"Keep your hands out." Artiom insisted, as he reached one of his hands into Omars pocket and grabbed a keychain. He looked at it and said: "Well, you ought to know right?" Omar grabbed the key chain and inserted the right key. The house was in complete darkness. The only light present was the hazy moonlight shining through the windows.
"So where’s the office?" Artiom asked. He got nothing.
"Well you should know shouldn’t you? This is your house is it not?"
Omar stumbled up the stairs. The office was a luxurious room filled with expensive furniture and decorated with only the finest of decorations. Omar stood idly by as Artiom wandered around, examining every inch of the room. As Artiom knocked on the walls, he gave Omar a question to which he himself already knew the answer:
"A politician such as yourself must have some sort of insurance in these ill times, must you not? You see many of you have saferooms…" Artiom cut the question trusting the man would know more than well what he was talking about.
The saferoom was different, it was slightly smaller due to thicker, insulated walls and the smaller furniture that had been cramped in. "It’s nice." Artiom proclaimed, before he raised his leg for swift kick to the Omars scruple knee. He fell to floor screaming in agony, and just like that, Artiom was gone with the door behind him firmly shut, Omar blacked out.
He woke up sitting firmly in his chair, feet tied to it and hands tied above his head. He was wearing nothing else than his boxers. The air felt heavy and cold, a light swung above his head, shining a dim light in the room.
"Who the hell…?!" Artiom lunged forward and landed a massive blow just below his ribcage, rendering him breathless. Omar was stunned, as though he hadn’t an idea who this vicious man was, as though he didn’t even remember what had happened in the last few hours.
"An Izmash 16 guage, smooth-borred. Anything you should worry about?" The man sat in utter confusion, hoping for a good night out had turned into praying for his life.
"Well a 16 guage is the least you have to worry about now, right?" Artiom continued.
"I’m amazed a mute has made it to a seat within the government." A sudden swift move and an improvised shiv had pierced Omars knee. The wooden splinter edged in behind the kneecap. He screamed uncontrollably, and as he did so, a small needle was rammed into his chest. As quick as the heart wrenching pain had pulsed through the core of his body, it had vanished. His body turned numb, yet he perceived everything as sharp as a hawk stalking it’s prey.
"What was…?"
Artiom cut him off yet again. His hand created a firm grip around the wooden shiv that protruded from the man’s knee, and with a slow movement he pulled it towards himself. The kneecap started shifting with a horrible grinding sound, the skin around it shaping itself like a horrible membrane. The man gazed upon it with disgust and distaste. A phantomly notion hurried through his body, like a messenger running empty letters. Empty papers, yet the gesture too real.
"Where’s Galine…?" The man said, eyes fixed on his deformed knee. Artiom did not offer the man any replies, instead he picked up another needle. The man sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do about what was about to happen. The needle was aimed directly at his heart, the sharp contact presented an immediate chilling shock. It rushed through his body. He could feel himself crumbling, his mind feeling ever more hazy. It felt as though his body was giving up on him. His heart starting to lower it's beating. He was only half-conscious by now. The blood pouring from his knee slowly ceased.
Omars gaze could only make out two large objects in the hands of his caretaker, two clasps, rusty and worn. Artiom placed the clasps around the man’s upper-arms. The rusty shackles left a gritty mark upon the skin as they were shifted around. He then grabbed a firm hold of the wooden handles and started cranking. The clasps slowly tightened their grip of the man’s arm, stretching his skin, pressuring his muscles, cracking his bones. The skin burst. The clasp moved tighter, breaching the flesh, and ultimately shattering his humerus-bone. The sharp cracking sound echoed through the room, ringing in the Omars ears, leaving a tormenting scar in his fragile state of mind. The clasps were removed, and Artiom sat down infront of the broken old man, staring at him, analyzing his feeble mindset.
Omar raised his head, trying to contain the tears that brewed inside.
"It… It’s all just physical…" The man finally said. He mustered for more:
"You can’t… break a man, by destroying his body… you fuck… !" He tried to laugh, but he couldn’t help but to cringe as he gazed upon his ailments.
"It’s true. I cannot break a man by busting his legs, or even by puncturing his heart. A man dies when his kin fall, or rather when his spirit is broken, wasn't that always your philosophy?" Artiom stared into Omars painfilled eyes and contracted a cheerful grin. Omar sat confused, trying to understand Artiom’s ultimate reasoning. Artiom checked his watch one last time:
"She is a punctual lass is she not, your wife?" He exclaimed. And just as he lowered his arm a loud bang could be heard from the upper floor, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor, followed by a long silence. The man burst, his eyes were filled with tears and he screamed out as loud as he could. Artiom grinned as he grabbed an ivory shaving razor and took two quick slices to the man’s inner thighs. The blood started pouring, and Omars voice faded. Artiom gazed upon the man for the last time, it bothered him that he did not have time to create a masterpiece out of such a disgusting figure. The police would arrive soon, the bang must’ve echoed through the entire street. He took a photograph, cut the light and closed the door behind him with outmost care. He brought forth a letter the man had carried, he read the first cheesy lines and giggled to himself as he headed back out into the night.
After a few tense minutes, Omar peeked upon a house to his right, but kept on walking down the pavement.
"Say, is that not the house you’re looking for?" Artiom rhetorically asked him. He did as the figure hinted. He stepped up to the door and stopped.
"Keep your hands out." Artiom insisted, as he reached one of his hands into Omars pocket and grabbed a keychain. He looked at it and said: "Well, you ought to know right?" Omar grabbed the key chain and inserted the right key. The house was in complete darkness. The only light present was the hazy moonlight shining through the windows.
"So where’s the office?" Artiom asked. He got nothing.
"Well you should know shouldn’t you? This is your house is it not?"
Omar stumbled up the stairs. The office was a luxurious room filled with expensive furniture and decorated with only the finest of decorations. Omar stood idly by as Artiom wandered around, examining every inch of the room. As Artiom knocked on the walls, he gave Omar a question to which he himself already knew the answer:
"A politician such as yourself must have some sort of insurance in these ill times, must you not? You see many of you have saferooms…" Artiom cut the question trusting the man would know more than well what he was talking about.
The saferoom was different, it was slightly smaller due to thicker, insulated walls and the smaller furniture that had been cramped in. "It’s nice." Artiom proclaimed, before he raised his leg for swift kick to the Omars scruple knee. He fell to floor screaming in agony, and just like that, Artiom was gone with the door behind him firmly shut, Omar blacked out.
He woke up sitting firmly in his chair, feet tied to it and hands tied above his head. He was wearing nothing else than his boxers. The air felt heavy and cold, a light swung above his head, shining a dim light in the room.
"Who the hell…?!" Artiom lunged forward and landed a massive blow just below his ribcage, rendering him breathless. Omar was stunned, as though he hadn’t an idea who this vicious man was, as though he didn’t even remember what had happened in the last few hours.
"An Izmash 16 guage, smooth-borred. Anything you should worry about?" The man sat in utter confusion, hoping for a good night out had turned into praying for his life.
"Well a 16 guage is the least you have to worry about now, right?" Artiom continued.
"I’m amazed a mute has made it to a seat within the government." A sudden swift move and an improvised shiv had pierced Omars knee. The wooden splinter edged in behind the kneecap. He screamed uncontrollably, and as he did so, a small needle was rammed into his chest. As quick as the heart wrenching pain had pulsed through the core of his body, it had vanished. His body turned numb, yet he perceived everything as sharp as a hawk stalking it’s prey.
"What was…?"
Artiom cut him off yet again. His hand created a firm grip around the wooden shiv that protruded from the man’s knee, and with a slow movement he pulled it towards himself. The kneecap started shifting with a horrible grinding sound, the skin around it shaping itself like a horrible membrane. The man gazed upon it with disgust and distaste. A phantomly notion hurried through his body, like a messenger running empty letters. Empty papers, yet the gesture too real.
"Where’s Galine…?" The man said, eyes fixed on his deformed knee. Artiom did not offer the man any replies, instead he picked up another needle. The man sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do about what was about to happen. The needle was aimed directly at his heart, the sharp contact presented an immediate chilling shock. It rushed through his body. He could feel himself crumbling, his mind feeling ever more hazy. It felt as though his body was giving up on him. His heart starting to lower it's beating. He was only half-conscious by now. The blood pouring from his knee slowly ceased.
Omars gaze could only make out two large objects in the hands of his caretaker, two clasps, rusty and worn. Artiom placed the clasps around the man’s upper-arms. The rusty shackles left a gritty mark upon the skin as they were shifted around. He then grabbed a firm hold of the wooden handles and started cranking. The clasps slowly tightened their grip of the man’s arm, stretching his skin, pressuring his muscles, cracking his bones. The skin burst. The clasp moved tighter, breaching the flesh, and ultimately shattering his humerus-bone. The sharp cracking sound echoed through the room, ringing in the Omars ears, leaving a tormenting scar in his fragile state of mind. The clasps were removed, and Artiom sat down infront of the broken old man, staring at him, analyzing his feeble mindset.
Omar raised his head, trying to contain the tears that brewed inside.
"It… It’s all just physical…" The man finally said. He mustered for more:
"You can’t… break a man, by destroying his body… you fuck… !" He tried to laugh, but he couldn’t help but to cringe as he gazed upon his ailments.
"It’s true. I cannot break a man by busting his legs, or even by puncturing his heart. A man dies when his kin fall, or rather when his spirit is broken, wasn't that always your philosophy?" Artiom stared into Omars painfilled eyes and contracted a cheerful grin. Omar sat confused, trying to understand Artiom’s ultimate reasoning. Artiom checked his watch one last time:
"She is a punctual lass is she not, your wife?" He exclaimed. And just as he lowered his arm a loud bang could be heard from the upper floor, followed by the sound of something hitting the floor, followed by a long silence. The man burst, his eyes were filled with tears and he screamed out as loud as he could. Artiom grinned as he grabbed an ivory shaving razor and took two quick slices to the man’s inner thighs. The blood started pouring, and Omars voice faded. Artiom gazed upon the man for the last time, it bothered him that he did not have time to create a masterpiece out of such a disgusting figure. The police would arrive soon, the bang must’ve echoed through the entire street. He took a photograph, cut the light and closed the door behind him with outmost care. He brought forth a letter the man had carried, he read the first cheesy lines and giggled to himself as he headed back out into the night.